Chapter 8 - THE BLACKOUT AT GREENWICH
The rain returned at dusk, turning the heavy autumn woods surrounding the Greenwich estate into a dark, dripping maze of mud and pine needles.
At 11:15 PM, forty-five minutes before the midnight corporate merger deadline, a non-descript grey delivery van pulled off the secondary access road half a mile from Vance's estate.
Inside the rear cargo area, Adrian and Mercer were putting the final checks on their gear. They wore dark tactical trousers, water-resistant black jackets, and lightweight ear-beading comms units.
"Signal jammer is active," Mercer said, checking his wrist monitor. "All cellular and commercial radio frequencies within a two-mile radius are completely dead. Vance's security team won't be able to make external emergency calls."
Adrian looked through the rear window of the van at the towering iron perimeter fence seventy yards away. Beyond the dense trees, the upper floor lights of Vance's sprawling stone manor glowed like a fortress in the dark.
"The main municipal power junction box is located inside the culvert under the north gate," Adrian said, pulling on a pair of reinforced leather work gloves. "I installed the sub-panel myself three years ago. The conduit runs directly to the transformer station."
Mercer picked up a heavy pair of hydraulic wire cutters and slung a tactical shotgun over his shoulder. "I'll handle the junction box. You take the north drainage culvert and enter through the sub-basement generator room."
Adrian checked his Glock 19, ensuring a round was chambered, and pressed the small comms button in his ear. "Comms check."
"Loud and clear, lad," Mercer replied. "Once the lights go out, you have eight seconds to clear the generator room door before the emergency locks re-engage. Do not linger."
"Understood."
They slipped out the rear doors of the van, vanishing instantly into the wet, dark woods.
Adrian moved with quick, silent efficiency through the thick brush, his boots making almost no sound on the wet pine needles. His mind was completely clear, stripped of doubt, fear, and fatigue. He was no longer the grieving, broken ghost who had spent three years staring at empty coffee cups. He was a father protecting his child.
He reached the north edge of the estate wall where a rusted iron drainage grate led into the subterranean culvert system.
He pulled out a heavy crowbar, jammed the wedge into the frame seam, and leaned his full weight into it.
CREAK. SNAP.
The rusted iron bolt sheared away. Adrian swung the heavy grate open and slid into the dark, wet concrete tunnel, pulling the iron frame back into place behind him.
He navigated the knee-deep water of the culvert by memory, his penlight cutting a narrow beam through the dark until he reached the heavy steel access hatch that led up into the estate's sub-basement generator room.
He checked his tactical watch.
11:42 PM.
"Mercer," Adrian whispered into his comms unit. "I'm at the access hatch. In position."
"Copy that," Mercer’s voice crackled softly in his ear. "Count down from three. Three... two... one... cutting main grid."
Outside, forty yards away, Mercer jammed the hydraulic wire cutters into the main high-voltage feeder cables inside the street junction box and squeezed the handles.
SPARK! FLASH!
A brilliant blue arc of electricity exploded inside the box, instantly severing the main power grid to the entire sector.
Across the twelve-acre estate, every light, security camera, floodlamp, and electronic monitor died simultaneously, plunging the sprawling manor into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Inside the dark sub-basement, Adrian heard the heavy pneumatic deadbolts on the access hatch retract with a series of sharp, metallic CLACKS.
One second.
Adrian threw the heavy steel hatch open and hauled himself up onto the concrete floor of the generator room.
Three seconds.
He crossed the dark room, his penlight sweeping across the giant diesel generator unit sitting silent in the center of the space.
Five seconds.
He reached the heavy steel fire door that led to the main basement hallway.
Seven seconds.
He grabbed the lever handle, threw the door wide open, and stepped out into the corridor just as the giant diesel generator roared to life behind him with a deafening, mechanical rumble.
Eight seconds.
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The emergency red halogen lights along the baseboards flickered on, bathing the concrete hallway in a deep, blood-red glow as the automated door locks re-engaged throughout the house.
Adrian raised his suppressed Glock, clicked off the safety, and moved silently toward the basement staircase.
